


Before the Betrayal

by SamrieIsMarxistGay



Series: Toxic Tango [1]
Category: Dream RPF, Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Anal Sex, Angst, Casual Abuse, Cocaine, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamrieIsMarxistGay/pseuds/SamrieIsMarxistGay
Summary: Wilbur Soot tracks down Schlatt for securement of his sponsorship for the election. Even if all signs point to a bad outcome, if he wants it, maybe he's just as bad as Schlatt.If you invite destruction to vouch for you, maybe you were hinting all along you were going to destroy your nation.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Series: Toxic Tango [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167782
Comments: 6
Kudos: 80





	Before the Betrayal

They met before Schlatt agreed to sponsor him.

Wilbur hated leaving the safety of the server’s realm into the transit-station on a whim, but it was necessary. There was a feeling like diving into a pool and finding the water unpleasantly warm when it should be cool and he was suddenly in a bustling traffic center with various portals, some requiring keys, some easy to reach, and others hinting of anarchy in that their bridges were armed and in states of disrepair.

The bridge to the Dream SMP was made with crafting tables, furnaces, and absent obsidian as if someone was worried someone might torch the damn thing. He had a spare key on him for Schlatt, and his own key hung around his neck as he passed through the gate portal to the bridge.

People were milling around, some eying the Dream SMP’s bridge, but held back by the gate. There was the distant sound of explosions echoing from some portals that set his teeth on edge and reminded him too much of a memory he didn’t have yet. Sometimes timelines would clash, and he’d have dreams of the past and future when he passed through the transit station

That’s why he didn’t do it often.

He knew where Schlatt would be. In the center of the transit-hub was a megaplex of sorts, a mix of a casino, a mall, tournament arenas and various taverns and bars and hotels dotting the miniature city—the Discord. Of course, the damned place was its own death trap to navigate, full of elevators that lead to dead ends or halls that twisted endlessly and stairs that disappeared at midnight. Scanners and bots blinked on and off with redstone that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t.

Security was a myth, but it was present enough to give everyone a sense of safety. Schlatt likely was hanging out on the lower levels in a seedier bar getting his rocks off.

Other people he’d like to bribe were higher up, harder to get ahold of or likely off on their own server realms. If he found a balcony somewhere in the Discord, he could probably gaze into the distance and see the relatively normal bridge that’d lead to Philza. Or he could chance the parkour of a bridge that lead to the bustling Games server-realms hub.

The lights of advertisements, of promotions lit his face as they flashed on the screen of the elevator as he waited for it to come up again. Mingling around him was disturbingly too many teenagers, as well as a group of guys dressed in terrible superhero costumes arguing over a movie. When the elevator came, half of them crammed in and Wilbur crossed his arms to keep his body tight to himself. He pressed the button for the floor and shut his eyes as the elevator plummeted downwards.

It took around ten stops to get to his floor, and by the time he left only three people were left in the elevator. One man wearing a mask and smoking a joint, and another with a hood drew over his face. Wilbur sighed and exited the elevator, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The elevator opened directly into what seemed to be the heart of the sleaziest casino known to man and beast. He’d been here before, but the carpet wasn’t any better than his memory supplied. It still felt sticky and clung to his shoes even with the footpath worn into its faded LSD-imagined pattern full of nonsensical geometry, disturbing images and faces that melted together the longer one looked into the fabric.

If Wilbur ever wanted to imagine where Schlatt had been conceived, it’d been on this carpet. A brawl with swords and crossbows was taking place over the billiards tables and Blackjack table. A dead body vaporized as he stepped past it, likely sending whoever back to their realm or a New-U station. The fallen credits from his body were seized by a gangly man who was taller than Wilbur—was—he was vaporized quickly by a wry woman with her hair tightly wrapped in a bun who darted towards the elevator, a pursuer following.

But Wilbur was good at wading past this and being unseen, a ghost in his own body as he approached the bar where he’d last left Schlatt drinking his heart out. He wasn’t surprised to see the familiar horns, catching the technicolor glow of the lights overhead, the yellowing horns bouncing between green and magenta. He was snorting coke.

Wilbur groaned internally, but approached the bar, nonetheless, leaning on the counter next to Schlatt. He waited for the man to raise his head and then, said, “Hey, Schlatt.”

Those sheep eyes blinked at him blearily, red at the edges and twitchy before he caught on and he grinned. His gums were a bright red. “Wilbur Soot! How long has it been!”

“Ages, Schlatt. Months. Who cares,” Wilbur said. He folded his hands together on the counter and braced himself. This was going to be a good endorsement, regardless of the state of Schlatt.

“Get my man a drink!” Schlatt barked at the bartender, who didn’t even look twice, sliding a foul shot glass sloshing with something that glowed over to Wilbur who accepted it, but didn’t drink. “You look good. What’s with the get up?”

“That’s why I came,” Wilbur said, and glanced to Schlatt who was staring at him, his eyes raking down Wilbur’s jacket and pants, taking it in. He took a drink from his own glass, sweeping his eyes back up to Wilbur’s.

“To show it off? I’d say needs a little less,” Schlatt said.

“I’m running for president; a re-election, Schlatt,” Wilbur said.

“For what?” Schlatt questioned. He nudged Wilbur’s glass. “Take a drink, Wilbur.”

Wilbur winced, but downed the shot, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily to cope with the burn before opening them with a cough. “Gods, that bites.”

“You’re not as used to it,” Schlatt dismissed. “Want a hit?” He offered Wilbur the metal straw who declined it.

“President of L’Manberg. I am. President. I just figured I’d make it even more democratic. Let people choose us,” Wilbur said, and turned the shot glass upside down. To his disappointment, another was set down beside the glass. He wasn’t looking to get hammered with Schlatt, but he supposed that’s the road he was heading down.

Schlatt blinked, then barked with laughter. He clapped Wilbur on the back. “Oh, you’re really growing into your own! That’s cute. You, president. You don’t have what it takes,” Schlatt dismissed and laid out another line and straightened it with a card. “You don’t have the guts. The bloodthirst.” Schlatt snorted the line. “Not like me, baby.”

“Good thing it’s not you who’s running,” Wilbur cut him off, and pulled the metal straw from his hand while the high was hitting him and turned towards the ruckus of casino and threw that damned thing into it. Let him go crawl on his hands and knees through that filth if he wanted it back.

Unsurprisingly, Schlatt responded with violence. He slammed Wilbur’s head down onto the bar and pressed his head against the wood, snarling.

“Why the fuck did you do that for?” Schlatt snapped.

“I need you at least able to fucking stand to sponsor me, Schlatt,” Wilbur said. He pulled Schlatt’s hand off, but he didn’t let go of Wilbur’s hair. He did let Wilbur pull his head up and wipe the blood off his now broken nose. No one cast them a look as the two glowered at each other.

“I don’t know why I should sponsor you. Who else is running?” Schlatt questioned. He let go of Wilbur’s hair and took a drink from his glass. It was a glowing potion and wasn’t any better than the drugs likely. Wilbur took a swig from his shot-glass, then finished it, using it to rinse the taste of blood from his mouth where he bit his tongue.

“Quackity and George,” Wilbur said.

Schlatt tapped his fingers on the counter. “I’ll consider sponsoring you. On one condition.”

“Fuck. What?” Wilbur questioned.

Schlatt held up a finger and motioned the bartender over. He got another drink, a shot like Wilbur’s and drank it, before sticking his finger into his cocaine case and rubbed it on his gums. The ram-horned man titled his head back, reveling in a high before just looking down at Wilbur with a mix of disgust and lust

“Whatever it is just get it out here,” Wilbur said. He didn’t even wait for the next shot glass to be put down before he threw it back, ignoring the burn going down his throat as he wiped blood from his top lip.

“I want to fuck you,” Schlatt said.

“Fuck,” Wilbur said, and slammed the shot glass down hard enough to break it. It bit into his hand, but he didn’t let go of it. Instead he leaned onto the counter, laughing absently into that arm. “Gods, you’re messed in the head.”

“Yeah, and?” Schlatt questioned. He idly snuck a hand back into Wilbur’s hair. He gently tugged at it, lifting Wilbur’s face off the counter to look at it. “Never stopped you before.”

“I’m starting to get a brain,” Wilbur said. He let go of the shards of the glass and wiped his palm off on his pants. Small shards of glass stayed in his hand, but he wasn’t about to try to pick them out when he could barely see straight with the alcohol and the flickering dance lights above. “Not enough of one since I’m here.”

“I want to take that stupid costume off you,” Schlatt said.

“I don’t remember saying yes,” Wilbur said, and Schlatt groaned.

“Fuck, you want me to appear at your little election and say how you’re such a good goddamn leader. I’ll be there. Now let’s get a room,” Schlatt said and shakily stood. He leaned on the counter for the moment, ducking his head. “My heart feels like its beating so goddamn fast. It’s probably you, you’re breaking it.”

Wilbur snorted. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he came here. This? This toxic song and dance. Probably. Whenever they met, they both ended up bleeding and bruised and coming away worse for wear with some level of trauma to add to their lives. They constantly shook hands with knives in one another’s back.

Schlatt was impatient. His hands fiddling in his pockets of his suit which hung off him unbuttoned and wrinkled and stained with potions and blood. Wilbur stood up straighter, but not to go with Schlatt. He held up a finger for another drink.

He wasn’t drunk enough for this yet.

“No?” Schlatt questioned. “Damn, you’ve grown a bit of a backbone. Never would have known from how much you’ll bend over.” He leaned back onto the counter and sat down again. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not a bit,” Wilbur said. He gripped the shot glass in his bleeding hand.

“Ow, that stings,” Schlatt said faux pain. He stirred the drink he left on the counter with his finger and sipped at it. “You should walk out of here, Wilbur Soot. While your spine’s still in you.” It was fake concern, Schlatt was playing with him now. He was curious. Last time they’d had this tango, Wilbur hadn’t made Schlatt wait. This time, he would. And if Schlatt thought Wilbur would walk away, he’d never suggest for Wilbur to leave.

The noose around Schlatt’s neck, Wilbur held, would kill him if Wilbur ever walked away and let him hang for once.

“I like the drinks,” Wilbur lied.

Schlatt laughed. “Why are you running for president, Wilbur?”

“For freedom,” Wilbur said.

“That’s sweet,” Schlatt said. “Real honorable.”

The insinuation hung there. _Which you aren’t_.

“Yeah, well, some of us aren’t walking TNT duping machines,” Wilbur said, tilting his head to look at Schlatt sideways and see those pupils as vertical. It made him look slightly more lizard like, but Schlatt’s yellow eyes, a mix of jaundice and his sheep eyes were always strangely hypnotic.

“And you want a walking TNT duping machine to voice his support, huh?” Schlatt questioned. “It’s like you want this to blow up in your face,” Schlatt said and chugged his drink. He set the glass down and fiddled with his cufflinks.

“It makes things more interesting,” Wilbur said, with a laugh.

“Hm,” Schlatt pondered. He spun the button on his cufflink. “You know, you’re almost tempting me to sponsor you without any further convincing.”

Wilbur snickered. He was leaning on the counter still, resting his head on his arm. He tapped his fingers against his shot glass and reached with his other hand to where Schlatt was fiddling with his cufflinks and pulled at the fabric. “That’s a shame, because I almost felt like convincing you.”

Schlatt let go of his cufflinks, and gripped Wilbur’s hand, turning it over to face it palm up. “Less callouses than before.”

“I don’t fight,” Wilbur said, watching Schlatt trace his fingers across the creases of his hand.

“I’d make you fight again,” Schlatt said absently, closing Wilbur’s hand and staring earnestly at Wilbur. “No matter what you do to convince me, Wilbur.”

“Is that a promise?” Wilbur questioned. For a moment he saw Schlatt as more human. There was a tiredness, an honest eagerness on his face, even if poorly lit by the flashing colors on them. He could almost look regretful. Maybe he was. But no one was able to take a picture of his face then. It was erased, Schlatt’s smirk covering his face.

“Just some aimless banter, Wilbur,” Schlatt said and gently combed his hands down Wilbur’s scalp to his neck to gently rest his fingers there. Wilbur leaned into Schlatt’s touch and considered the shot-glass in his hand. He was going to be hopelessly drunk and prone to consequence. Wilbur drew his hand back to himself and gripped the shot glass in both hands, his fingers overlapping around its tiny diameter.

Schlatt scooted closer to him, running his hand back into Wilbur’s hair. “Going to drink that?” Schlatt said.

“I’m considering not drinking,” Wilbur said.

Schlatt leaned off his chair practically to cup Wilbur’s hand and Wilbur let him guide his hand to his mouth. The rim of the cup pressed into his lip, a chip in it biting into the flesh of his bottom lip. Wilbur opened his mouth and let Schlatt tip the drink into his mouth. Wilbur let his eyes close and tilted his head back with the urging of Schlatt’s hand in his hair and swallowed the drink.

It felt like he was floating. Schlatt caught the glass as he let go of it and if it wasn’t for Schlatt’s hand grounding him, he would have drifted away.

“We finding a room, Wilbur?”

“You tell me, Schlatt,” Wilbur said, leaning into Schlatt as he pulled Wilbur against him as the man drunkenly stumbled into Schlatt. Even with the painful throbbing noise of the bar against his ears and head, and the lights blinding his eyes into a kaleidoscope of confusion, those horns and yellowed eyes stuck out in his mind and the flash of the red gums as Schlatt opened his mouth to answer.

“We’re finding a room,” Schlatt said.

He kept one hand into Wilbur’s hair to guide him, and Wilbur kept one hand on Schlatt’s neck, feeling the tense muscles and jut of his Adam’s apple when his fingers drifted forward too far. No one disturbed them, even if eyes went to Schlatt whose loud voice usually followed his existence. Even if now Wilbur knew he was quiet.

A room with a green vacant sign wasn’t far—the casino was built for sleaze, and Schlatt slapped his credits card against it and pushed it open. They both stumbled in, momentarily distracted by the sight of a bed and TV before Schlatt was closing the door and pushing him against it. He slid his leg between Wilbur’s and started undoing the snaps and buttons on his coat.

Wilbur laughed, leaning against Schlatt’s shoulder and inhaling the dense odor of cigarettes, alcohol and blaze powder from the potions. “You smell like the fucking bottom of a potion chest,” Wilbur muttered.

“You couldn’t have changed into something else before coming here,” Schlatt said. His fingers grasped and pulled at the fixings until he could pull it off Wilbur’s shoulders. Wilbur didn’t help him, and just leaned his head back against the door, inviting Schlatt to kiss him. 

It worked. Schlatt pressed his face into the crook of Wilbur’s neck and inhaled. “Fuckin’ missed that,” Schlatt muttered to himself before he nipped. He pressed a line of kisses up Wilbur’s throat to the underside of Wilbur’s jaw, and he pressed softly on his mouth before pulling away. “You’re such a slut. You want this.”

“Shut up, Schlatt,” Wilbur said with a roll of his eyes, and gripped Schlatt’s tie and pulled him back to himself.

He let go to tilt Schlatt’s head up to his and kiss Schlatt, tasting the sour and acidic taste of his tongue and the bitter taste of the cocaine still resting in his gums. Schlatt kissed him back, fiercely, his horns pressing into Wilbur’s face as he angled his mouth to press himself against Wilbur closely, grinding his crotch into Wilbur’s hip.

“Fuck,” Schlatt pulled away again, 

He kissed Wilbur’s mouth chaste and then worked on getting Wilbur’s arms out of the coat. Wilbur helped him, tugging the coat off and reaching for Schlatt’s tie. He loosened the already dreadfully tied tie and pulled it free and Schlatt chucked off his suit jacket carelessly. “Fuck, I want you on my dick already,” Schlatt said, pressing his erection into Wilbur’s hip to relieve the pressure building in his lower stomach. He dug his fingers into Wilbur’s hips and pulled his belt off and pushed his pants off.

Wilbur was undoing his shirt, when Schlatt stopped him, rolling his hips against Wilbur’s causing him to lose focus. Wilbur groaned and titled his head back, rubbing back against Schlatt and gripping the man’s shoulders as they ground together for a moment, both desperate. The friction felt good but wasn’t enough.

Schlatt got Wilbur naked from the waist down, and without much warning, fisted Wilbur’s cock and tugged rough. Wilbur sunk a few inches, and if it wasn’t for Schlatt’s leg between his he might have sunk to the floor. It felt good. Schlatt’s thumb swept over the tip of his head a few times before he let Wilbur go, leaving the man aching and desperate.

“Fucking tease,” Wilbur hissed and Schlatt laughed dryly.

He rocked his hips against Wilbur’s, his belt buckle digging into the tender flesh of his stomach as Schlatt worked on pulling his pants off. Wilbur gripped Schlatt’s shoulders, gripping the wrinkled collared shirt for support as Schlatt’s mouth returned hot and heavy to his neck. He kissed a warm trail down to Wilbur’s collar bone and sunk his teeth in as he pulled his pants free.

Of course, he wasn’t wearing underwear under his fucking trousers. Schlatt rubbed their erections together in one hand, his fingers barely able to really grasp Wilbur’s, but the friction welcome enough that Wilbur found himself chasing it, leaning into Schlatt hard enough to unbalance the man and they stumbled away from the door.

“Damn. Calm down, Wilbur,” Schlatt mocked and gripped Wilbur’s hips. He spun them around, pushing Wilbur onto the bed back first. “Beg for my fucking cock.”

“Fuck you,” Wilbur said, wrapping his legs around Schlatt’s waist as Schlatt leaned over him. The gel was already losing its hold in Schlatt’s hair and it fell over his forehead as he bent down to kiss Wilbur. Wilbur closed his eyes and ran his tongue over Schlatt’s teeth. He dug his nails into Schlatt’s back through the worn shirt.

Schlatt adjusted Wilbur on the bed, dragging his hips to the edge and pulling his belt off the ground. Wilbur knew what Schlatt wanted. Power play. He crossed his wrists above his head and Schlatt bent over, his erection dragging against Wilbur’s thigh and stomach as he cinched the belt tight around Wilbur’s wrists. It wasn’t tight enough.

Wilbur flexed one of his wrists and knew he could he pull free if he wanted but didn’t let on. It was all about appearances. He relaxed his arms as Schlatt took him in, running his hand down Wilbur’s chest and undoing the last few buttons holding his shirt on him and pushing it to the side. Wilbur was beautiful.

Scars from sword fights from young and old littered across his chest and arms, a few bruises from the rough and tumble nature of the SMP healing up and a scar from a knife wound Schlatt left once under his left pec—Schlatt had stabbed him in a vain attempt to kill him once. Schlatt’s nails scraped across the ridges of the scar tissue and he bent down and pressed a long kiss to the scar he’d left himself, his eyes glancing up to Wilbur.

Wilbur gazed back, transfixed.

Schlatt undid his own shirt slowly now, reveling in Wilbur’s gaze and Wilbur liked the hair—especially where the hair parted on Schlatt’s stomach where Wilbur had partially disemboweled him and another scar around Schlatt’s side that stretched and turned pink as Schlatt threw his shirt off over his head. He’d nearly killed Schlatt so many times. So many fights where he’d have the man at the edge, his knee on his throat and Schlatt would charm his way out.

He’d even made Schlatt cry once.

It was all an act.

“I’m not as fit as you. I haven’t been running around with teenagers,” Schlatt said, running his hand over Wilbur’s abs and down to his naval, teasingly dancing his fingers light over his cock before drawing away.

“You look ill, Schlatt,” Wilbur said.

Schlatt slapped him hard. Backhanded across the face, but both of them laughed.

“Bitch,” Schlatt said, but it was almost fond. Even as Wilbur rolled his jaw lightly, flexed it and tilted his head forward to really eye Schlatt. “What’s that one from?”

“This?” Schlatt pointed to the burn mark on his stomach. “Spilled some shit. Was mixing potions in a hurry.”

“You’re addicted to the shit,” Wilbur said.

“You’d be too,” Schlatt said. _If you hadn’t left._

Their short distractions fade, and Schlatt spits into his hand and rubs the spit between his thumb, pointer and middle finger, his other hand gripping Wilbur’s thigh hard enough to bruise. “Open up more.”

Wilbur complied, moving his legs. One leg was now more on Schlatt’s back, but if that’s what the man so wanted, he’d give it. He didn’t warn Wilbur when he pushed a finger in, but Wilbur braced for it anyway. The way Schlatt’s jaw locked, and his eyes darkened—it wasn’t unlike when he stabbed Wilbur. He gasped, rolling in the feeling. It was rough, but a welcome friction that aided the pooling heat in his stomach.

Schlatt pushed a second finger in. Worked the muscles, only curling his fingers once in a tease, but more perfunctory in his actions than pleasurable. He let go of Wilbur’s thigh to grip his hip as he rammed his fingers in hard. Wilbur let out a cry.

“Schlatt!”

“Making sure you weren’t getting too comfy,” Schlatt muttered. He chewed on his bottom lip absently. “Look at you. Fuckin’ whore.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes and Schlatt released his hip, leaning over as he pounded his hand into Wilbur to grip his chin. “The fucking disrespect you show me, sometimes.”

“Give me a reason to respect you, Schlatt,” Wilbur said, and Schlatt’s fingers dug into his flesh.

“You want me to sponsor you, tell people how you’re not going to let them down,” Schlatt said. He leaned over to hiss the words near Wilbur’s ear. “If you keep fucking with me, I’ll go up there and tell them how horrible you are.” He curled his fingers and slowed down his ministrations, pressing his lips to Wilbur’s jaw. “How you’ll bring them to ruin.” He curled his fingers again to punctuate his words and Wilbur’s hips bucked. The man groaned.

“Schlatt,” Wilbur begged. “Fuck.”

“You understand me?” Schlatt said.

“Yes,” Wilbur moaned. Schlatt pulled his fingers out, leaving Wilbur’s body aching and his rising heat suddenly dwindling at the loss of contact. Schlatt looked eager. Depraved. He spit in his hand again and lubed up his dick, but he was in a hurry and Wilbur could only grip the bedspread with one of his hands before Schlatt pushed in.

It hurt. Which almost made it better. The feeling of being ripped open took the air out of his lungs and he cried out in a mix of shock, pain and relief. It felt good in the ways it shouldn’t. Wilbur turned his head to bury his face partially into his arm and the bedspread as Schlatt started a furious rhythm, uncaring about Wilbur’s spasms as his body and muscles fought to adjust to the pain.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Schlatt hissed, as he braced himself over Wilbur, one hand on the bed, the other near Wilbur’s shoulder and after a second thought, on Wilbur’s neck. Wilbur groaned when he felt the crook of Schlatt’s thumb and forefinger cut off his windpipe. It left Wilbur breathless, gasping at air when Schlatt’s hand loosened with his rhythm.

The two of them were sick in a way they shouldn’t be. Wilbur gripped the belt with one of his hands and the bed with the other and noted with how much it burned his orgasm was forgotten, the burning in his stomach overtaken by the pain, but gods if it wasn’t almost as good.

To remember just how bad Schlatt was.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” Schlatt choked out and he came with a groan. He pulled out and collapsed beside Wilbur, stroking Wilbur’s cheek with the hand he used to choke him. Wilbur caught his breath, burying his face into the bedspread to avoid facing Schlatt just yet. Schlatt reached down and stroked him roughly, pumping his hand up and down Wilbur’s dick carelessly.

For him Wilbur coming wasn’t that important, but it was just another part of the power play. To feel Wilbur spent and tired, moan against the bed and come by Schlatt’s hand. Wilbur still hadn’t even properly still caught his breath yet when he felt Schlatt throw an arm around him and bury his face against Schlatt’s shoulder, sleeping on his stomach so not to bruise Wilbur with his horns.

The joys of Schlatt’s damn horns.

Wilbur pulled his wrists free from the belt one at a time and rubbed them for a moment, assuring they wouldn’t be utterly useless tomorrow and threw an arm around Schlatt. The man reached up and pulled on the comforter until it partially covered them, neither of them moving to lay on the bed properly, their legs still dangling off.

“Sleep. Don’t feel comfortable going to sleep first,” Schlatt muttered into his bare shoulder, his lips and facial hair almost causing his skin to itch.

Wilbur laughed, rubbing the tension point in Schlatt’s back and closing his eyes. The room almost felt like it was spinning. Maybe it was the hangover already beginning or the brief strangulation or maybe just the craze of it all. When he peaked the room through mostly closed eyes and saw only madness. That made the popcorn ceiling warp into faces and scenes and fears and L’Manberg all jumbled around on the ceiling until Wilbur fell asleep to the faint sound of Schlatt’s snores.

…

Wilbur awoke to the ashy taste of what felt like letting pills dissolve in his mouth and with a belch, the lovely aftertaste of vomit and whatever was in the alcohol. He could also smell quite easily the sex still hanging in the air and a heavy tobacco smell that when he peaked one eye open he could see Schlatt sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed except for his suit jacket and smoking.

“This early?” Wilbur groaned, gesturing towards the cigarette with one hand.

“Never stop,” Schlatt said.

Wilbur sat up and dressed quickly despite the pain and nausea threatening his movements and almost tempting him with following over and just staying on the ground until the pain dwindled or the world stopped moving so wonky. But he had a job to do. An election to win. This was just a part of it.

His body was sweaty and gross, and his clothes smelt disgusting and like the sleaze of the casino outside. It clung to him and it was all he could smell—the mixed smell of vomit, alcohol, tobacco, sex and sweat clinging to him. Wilbur fought not to throw up and succeeded, sitting next to Schlatt like it didn’t pain him and declining the cigarette offered to him.

Schlatt held up Wilbur’s spare key.

“This for the server?” Schlatt questioned.

Wilbur nodded.

“I’ll be there,” Schlatt said.

Wilbur didn’t feel joy or anxiety or apprehension or hatred or anything. Just a dawning sense of acceptance and relief. It had been a few months too many without Schlatt’s taste of danger around him. And it was likely almost as addicting as the drugs Schlatt took.

Even if it was just as bad.

“Wilbur?” Schlatt questioned.

“Schlatt?” Wilbur said.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Schlatt look at him, his eyes halfway lidded and his hand tightly gripping his trousers. Almost like he wanted to reach out and touch Wilbur. He didn’t.

“See you,” Schlatt said, and he stood up and left the room, leaving Wilbur there alone.

…

Wilbur got back to his server fine and changed and bathed alone, wrapping a scarf around his neck as made himself presentable again, staring at his reflection in the water as a haunting doubt began to creep over him and his hand went to his key to the server, his eyes staring across the water.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are unmoderated; have at it. 
> 
> These boots were made for screwing, and that’s what they’ll do.


End file.
